Let’s get lost in a ditch where the hoary bindweed grows, where the sun is at half-mast and the wind won’t reach our toes.
North enters the story with one sweep Of the wind’s cold hand. It bruises you With its knowledge of You can never Leave. You cannot unbend the steel You placed so carefully along your spine. But the wind is more than cannot.
Each morning has stopped being the same Though the dogs don’t pronounce this. It’s something in the sound of the car Responding to my touch, something In the sleep left in my waking bones.
Bedroom suit. No bed. Perhaps there are other rooms Your pine attire will match, Though do not forget the armoire, Which for some reason, Is easier to spell than “suite.”
The stone in the acorn path invited you To listen, like a child will not. You must Learn to recognize the need in your child, Said the stone. Look closely at me, take A picture if necessary. Notice how still
“Son, do you know how love should be begun?”* Moving backward was the name of the first collection Of poetry I put together. I was fifteen, and I typed The poems on half-sheets of paper and arranged them Inside a full piece of typing…